Snollygoster
by Fudgyokra
Summary: Three days of Sherlock moping around the flat was enough to make any person snap, and John was never one to prolong the inevitable.


**Snollygoster**

_For Aly._

It wasn't that Sherlock was _angry_, per se. At least, that was what he swore was the truth and managed to pass off as such (under John's very non-scrutinizing gaze) for three days.

Three days of Sherlock moping around the flat was enough to make any person snap, and John was never one to prolong the inevitable. The past trio of tension-wrought breakfasts and stark-silent dinners were nothing if not prolonged, of course, but this was only because John figured he'd allow his flatmate a decent amount of time to fix whatever problem had snuck up on him—which, the blond noted with ire, had never been voiced.

So, naturally, because Sherlock had been miffed for three days at some problem John had no clue about, their typical Thursday morning breakfast was, in effect, begging for disaster.

It started with a seemingly innocuous question on the doctor's end: "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

The brunette merely lowered the paper he was reading to narrow his eyes at John over the top of it. In response, John rolled his eyes. "Come on, I know something's wrong?"

"I am aware that you know, John," Sherlock replied coolly, just before he went back to reading his paper. "You've known for at least forty-eight hours and you haven't seemed the least bit worried about any potential predicament in which I could have found myself. The least you could have done was ask what was wrong."

John scoffed once loudly, then again for good measure. "Ah, I believe I just did."

"Yes, but it took you three days." Sherlock set his paper down on the tabletop and shot John an icy glare, which surprised the latter. The detective was that offended that John hadn't asked about whatever the problem was? He figured it was a minor case or something of the sort: not any business that Sherlock would _want _John meddling in.

"I just—" He paused to scoff one last time—an effort made to put a barrier of calmness up, lest his words begin to burn with unnecessary anger. It was, after all, only nine a.m., and the last thing John wanted was to start a petty feud with his incorrigible detective. "I didn't say anything because I thought you had it handled."

"What makes you think I've got it handled if I'm distracted by it for three entire days?"

John tried his damndest not to roll his eyes. "Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, right?"

"I sense your sarcasm and I must say that I'm not particularly amused."

"Of course you aren't." His eyes, despite his efforts, rose to the ceiling. "You're never amused by anything _I _say, far as I've seen."

At that, Sherlock's brows knitted together. When he didn't come back with some insensitive quip, John knew he'd said the wrong thing. But what could that've been?

The silence stretched onward. John cleared his throat, drummed his fingers on the table, stirred his lukewarm coffee though it contained no sugar that would've settled. Finally, he tested the waters once more. "Sherlock, what _is _the matter with you? You're moodier than usual."

That, unfortunately, wasn't so much "testing the waters" as it was cannonballing directly into a tempest. The curly-haired man stood with a flair that flung his robe behind him, put his palms on the table, and leaned closer to John. "I thought you might've gotten used to that by now. It's fairly obvious that you've amused me in the past, and I'm certain I've expressed my gratitude for that at some given time."

John was taken aback. "Is that why you're mad?"

"What? No." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in the way he did whenever he deemed something unnecessary to address. "I think that it's—"

"Wait a bloody minute." Going against the grain of Sherlock's tantrum, a grin lit up the doctor's face. "You're mad because I haven't been paying attention to you."

"Of course not." His eyes darted to his left.

"You're lying."

"All right, so I may've been a little…"

"Lonely."

"That's not the point, however. What I'm trying to say is—"

"I know exactly what you're saying, Sherlock."

The detective swept his hands off the table. His eyes narrowed again. "Impossible."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know that much, John." These words were accompanied by Sherlock flipping his hand dismissively, and his flatmate, meanwhile, tried to concentrate on not letting his blood pressure skyrocket.

Through clenched teeth, John managed, "You—you're such an insufferable _ninnyhammer_."

The tension in the room melted away instantaneously. Sherlock's smile cracked through bit by bit, and right as he opened his mouth to comment, John began to laugh. The taller of them followed suit not even three seconds later. " 'Ninnyhammer'…," Sherlock repeated with humor in his voice.

When everything had calmed down, Sherlock willingly moved to sit beside John on the couch, a gesture that was meant well but still rendered the latter a tad concerned. "So," he started, regarding the brunette. "You really pitched a fit for three days because I wasn't paying attention to you? Is that it?"

Sherlock sneered and looked away. "Perhaps."

A snort came in answer, followed by an incredulous, "Wait, really?"

The detective sighed, giving John all the answer he needed. To cheer him up, he leaned against the back of the couch, got comfortable, sucked his teeth a moment, then said, casually, "You act just like a petulant child sometimes, for such a snollygoster."

As predicted, Sherlock looked dangerously close to cracking up again. "John, might I ask where you learned such ridiculous words?"

"I don't know, but they come in handy, I think."

"I don't suppose you have any more you'd like to share."

The blond smiled fondly. "I've got plenty."

* * *

**This oneshot's Fun Words list-**

Ninnyhammer: Fool or simpleton.

Snollygoster: Clever but unprincipled person.


End file.
